


Tomes and Tombstones

by Jeneva



Series: Bone, Blood and Bodies [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Violence, Consent, Death, Drabble, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Ghouls, Hellsing Ultimate OVA, Historical Fantasy, Inspired By Hellsing, LGBTQ Themes, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-30 17:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeneva/pseuds/Jeneva
Summary: A drabble/series inspired loosely on Hellsing (Ultimate).In a lonely little bookstore, nearly forgotten in the cobbled streets of Whitby, two strangers meet on rainy days. Surrounded by words, they find comfort between wooden shelves and leather bound books.Such things go unnoticed in such a sleepy town. But as winter grips Whitby, something much more sinister slips through the cracks in the cobblestones.





	1. Beginnings and Book Bindings

The tic tic tic pat of rain on the roof and cobblestones created a soothing sort of music for the person sitting behind the register at Tinker Tanner Tailor Tomes. It was one of the last bookstores left in Whitby. It wasn’t thrilling work by any means, but that was part of the point.  


The cashier heaved a sighed and rubbed irritably at tired eyes. The clock announced the hour with cheer, despite the damp weather. The rain had been ongoing for the better part of the day, but as evening approached that notorious English fog soon made itself known. It swallowed cars and houses and people alike.  


Rhosyn exhaled loudly in the empty store and took a moment to watch the world beyond the glass. The river was barely visible between two old stone buildings. Calm and grey. The cover of the book she had been reading was that same dull drab hue. Seeing that no one was rushing to maul the heavy bookshelves, she turned her head back down and searched her page for her last spot.  


Just as the clock ended its last toll, the door to the shop opened. Rhosyn looked up, surprised that she hadn’t noticed the person approaching, and straightened on her stool.  


“Hello,” She greeted with the smile of someone who had worked too many times in customer service. Fake but convincing enough. She waited as the customer carefully closed their umbrella and set it in the stand by the door. The customer looked quite tall, and surprisingly sharp in their long coat and dark pants. Nothing so fancy as to be out of place, but certainly better dressed than most who wandered about Whitby.  


The customer turned and gave a small nod before turning for the far shelves. Seeing as the customer seemed to have a plan already, Rhosyn adjusted herself to keep working on her book. She kept an eye on the customer, should her assistance be required. It was a tense few minutes as they both turned pages, she more idly than she should have. Her foot jumped insistently against the rung on the stool. She felt much less relaxed having someone lurking about. Lurking may have been too strong of a term. Rhosyn looked up to see the customer pick up an older, cloth bound book and gingerly flip through the pages. It felt intrusive to her when she had been enjoying her perfectly empty day, alone and quiet.  


She felt it but wasn’t quick enough to stop the edge of her page from slicing through the flesh of her thumb. She frowned and quickly pressed the wound closed while she slid off to get a paper towel in the back. When she returned with an awkward amount of white paper wrapped around her comparably miniscule wound, the customer was waiting patiently at the counter, hand resting on her book. Rhosyn flushed bright red as she loudly stepped up to the register. Reading! They were reading her book!  


“Is that all?” She asked, masking her discomfort as the customer’s long fingers trailed the lines of text. After a moment, she was able to meet their eyes, laughing and dark.  


“Yes.” The scratch of sliding the book's back on the wood tickled her ears. “Just this.” She had just picked up the book with her good hand when; “Unless you have a copy of this on hand as well.” There was a teasing lilt to the question that made Rhosyn’s face feel like fire.  


“We don’t have that in stock.” She answered smoothly while flipping through the old-style price book. “It is a University book on loan from Cambridge.”  


“Ah.” The patron turned the book back to her and waited as she scoured the price chart and the IBN number. “Are the tastes here so plain?”  


Rhosyn huffed a laugh. “The sex, scandal, and sin section is over there.” She pointed with her absurdly wrapped hand. “That,” she tapped her open book before entering the price in the register. “Is a collection with commentary by several editors.” She held her place with her pinky and flipped the book shut to show the cover. Representations on Sexuality, Morals, and Gender in pre 1900’s English Literature. The customer hummed lowly before straightening as the cash register chimed.  


“That will be £6.81.” The enigmatic customer continued to smile in that dark, crooked way as they paid. Rhosyn took the money, returned the change, and carefully slid the purchase into a plastic bag. She held it out and flinched with the stranger’s gloved hand nearly cupped her fingers as they retrieved the bag. Rhosyn immediately disliked the stranger.  


“Thank you, I will know where to turn when I need advice on pre-Edwardian erotic works. Good afternoon.” The customer smiled a toothy smile and retrieved their umbrella from the stand. They stepped out into the drizzling rain. Rhosyn watched as they walked past the large window and waited until they were out of sight to slip off the stool and peek. Gone. Rhosyn blinked, feeling uneasy, and sat back down behind the counter. She had dealt with strange customers before. Angry ones, awkward ones, creepy ones. This one didn’t quite fit any of those. Just… chilly, like a crisp wind.  


She couldn’t wait for 7 o’clock to come by.  
~  


Her strange customer had come again. On another dreary day. The sea had become angry with the turn in weather, rushing up and disturbing the river that ran by just a few streets over. This time she had seen the dark umbrella and sharp clothes approaching and Rhosyn was quick to stash her stack of reference material in favor of her knitting project. The clock had just tolled 4 a few moments prior to the stranger backing into the door in order to shake the water from their umbrella.  


“Welcome.” Rhosyn greeted only when the customer had finished stashing the umbrella. They smiled and nodded again before making their way to the raised level of the bookstore to browse. Rhosyn was careful to keep an eye on the stranger but they seem enthralled by the historical sectional. There they stood, thumbing through pages with a type of leisure that Rhosyn was unfamiliar with. People came in, browsed, bought a souvenir or two for friends and family. Nobody ever took the time to read. The stranger moved slowly through the stacks, almost like a shadow when caught in the corner of her eye. 

Eventually she had to look down to focus on the pattern of her scarf.  


It was an hour of silence. The strange customer had made themselves familiar with the armchair kept in that part of the store and was pleasantly out of sight… aside from the glossy black dress shoes. Rhosyn found herself staring at them between rows in her scarf. They never moved, not even to switch legs.  


The glass rattled as a particularly strong winter wind buffeted the display window. The young clerk watched the rain smear itself against the glass and blur the street beyond. It would have been an excellent day to drink something hot and stay cozy. Unfortunately, the old building was not well insulated. When Mr. Tailor moved out he no longer saw the need to heat the place. “It dampens the books.” He excused. The fireplace had been bricked up years ago. Rhosyn curled her toes in her shoes and felt the nip of storm chill against her shoulders. The best she had was a small heating fan by her feet.  


And was there little wonder to why the store was empty most days?  


“A new endeavor?” The customer’s deep voice interrupted her work. Rhosyn looked up just as the stranger came to stand before the counter, looking down with a sly smile. Rhosyn only hummed and held out her hand for the book. She put the transaction through in near silence, only sparing the customer the briefest of words necessary. She slid the bag across the counter and muttered a quick “Thank you for coming.” The customer laid long fingers upon the bagged book but did not move to take it.  


“I’m sorry,” The customer started lowly. “I have offended you.” Not a particularly astute observation. Rhosyn wasn’t keen on encouraging this little game.  


“Not at all.” She answered tightly, eyes alight as she stared the customer down through their red tinted glasses. Eccentric—classy—but eccentric. As if the choice in purchases had not been enough. The customer’s foxlike smile had melted away and was replaced by a more muted expression. Rhosyn wasn’t moved in the least and returned to her knitting, pointedly holding it up between the two of them. The customer’s smile pulled up again, as if amused.  


“How has your research been?” Rhosyn was not in the mood to chat. She half expected the customer to lean in, invade her space, but her bubble was secure, defended by a pair of metal knitting needles.  


“Excellent.” She snipped as she set her work down. She stared up at those laughing brown eyes. The customer wasn’t very old, but she was having a hard time deciding if the mark hung around early 30’s or 40’s. She had never seen someone so ambiguous. The customer smiled a close-lipped smile and slid the bag off the counter and into a pocket of their trench coat.  


“I am glad.” The gravelly timbre seemed amplified by the sound of rain against glass. “It is such an interesting topic to study. Are you working on a paper?”  


Rhosyn smiled, slightly less put off. “My graduate thesis.” The customer’s eyes lit up immediately as a smile revealed perfect white teeth.  


“Excellent!” It was such an enthusiastic exclamation that Rhosyn could only stare in surprise. The customer straightened and grinned a little wider. The customer buttoned up their coat as they turned for the door. “I look forward to the publication, then.”  
~  


The customer only came on rainy days. Not only rainy days, but slow days. The winter weather in Whitby meant that there had been little sunshine as of late. But a simple cloudy or dreary day just wouldn’t do. Her customer needed at least a healthy drizzle to be drawn out. Rhosyn found herself wondering if it was a tradition or if the customer was just plain weird. They never spoke much. Just a greeting, an inquiry on her work, a comment on a purchase. She found that while this stranger had a definite pattern for coming to the store, their choice in books seemed utterly random. One week, particle physics, another; Dorothy Richardson. The last purchase had actually started a lengthy conversation.  


“Virginia Woolf?” She asked as she ran her finger down the binding. The customer nodded, casually fiddling with the dark gray gloves that usually sheathed long fingers. Rhosyn had noticed that when the customer entered and left, the gloves were always on, but when she peered through the shelves of materials, she could see bare hands cradling books and thumbing pages.  


“I have never read her work.” The customer confessed. “I understand it is quite prolific.” Rhosyn tilted her head and shrugged as she searched up the price. The customer caught on and gave a small smirk. “You do not agree?”  


The clack of the register keys slapped the air. “No, she is well known and her work is excellent, revolutionary for the time.” She slid off the stool to find a new plastic bag to protect the book. “Did you know she and a couple of her prankster friends conned the British navy into giving them a tour of the primer battleship, the HMS Dreadnaught, in 1910?” She came back up and slid the book in as the customer handed her a ten-pound note.  


“I had no idea.” The customer chuckled as she worked out his change. Rhosyn smiled.  


“She, Horace de Vere Cole, Woolf’s brother and a few other dressed as Abyssinians and were lucky that the navy personnel were incompetent enough to fall for a bunch of writers speaking mixed up Latin and Greek, wearing blackface, and fake beards.” She decided not to sit on the stool as she handed the change and receipt back. “It was an awful way to go about it but the result is amusing.” She rested her arms on the counter and grinned. “You won’t find that in that book. It’s been trimmed out.”  


The customer looked delighted. “How fascinating. And laughable. The people of the great Empire thought themselves so singular and yet, they were fooled by a such an endeavor?” Rhosyn laughed.  


“The hallmark of the Colonial power is its superiority and fetishizing of others.” She straightened. “I am not sure of what you will take away from Woolf, but she is a woman of great privilege and her writing caters to a particular crust.” She reached down below the desk and produced a small purple book. “A lot of people recognize Woolf for her feminist writing. She addresses access, lesbianism, and power inequities of her time. She was offensive but palatable enough for people not to completely dismiss her.”  


The customer looked down at the book she offered. Assata. “I don’t presume you have this in stock?”  


Rhosyn laughed. “If Mr. Tailor heard that I’m sure he’d have a fit. ‘Nothing but the classics! None of this outrageous nonsense.’ The only reason that got in,” Rhosyn pointed to where the customer had tucked away the book. “Was because of her status. Anything less, British, isn’t worth the shelf space.”  


“A frustrating situation then. And quite limiting.” The customer mused. Rhosyn shrugged her shoulders again and smiled without realizing. The customer nodded and stepped out into the rain.  
~  


It hadn’t rained in a few weeks. The winter weather had turned again and although the sky was grey at all hours and the sea was rough, the clouds refused to shed themselves of their burden. Rhosyn found herself bored nearly to tears at the counter. Class work and research piled around her, glowed on her computer screen, screamed to be done lest she face the consequences of a subpar thesis. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do anything in the musty bookstore.  


“I need a break.” She muttered. Checking to see that no one was making their way towards the store, and also checking the skies for rain, she shoved her key items into her bag, hung the Back in 30 minutes sign on the door, and started down the old cobble street. She had a coffee shop in mind but she didn’t think it would help. She just needed to be out of that tiny store.  


The Magpie was a place of deep wood and sultry aromas. It wasn’t terribly busy at 3 in the afternoon so getting a strong tea and cozy nook was no problem. Rhosyn set her music in her ears and curled into an oversized chair to start highlighting and categorizing key components to her work.  


An hour passed before she returned to the store, a little more frantic after realizing how long she had been gone. The sky had grown darker and she could hear the ocean beating against the harbor in the distance. It was a violence of nature.  


She had just set her bag down when the door chimed. Her customer. She wondered if her delay had interfered with the schedule. She looked outside and noticed it had only just started raining. The customer browsed the books carefully, searching the new selections more thoroughly than the older books. Rhosyn continued reading and organizing her provisions, intent on ignoring her excitement in the customer’s interest in a book she had specifically set on the top of the pile.  


“Busy again.” The customer observed. The clerk smiled and set her work to the side to ring up the book. It wasn’t the one she had set on top and it almost made her frown.  


“You too.” She commented. History of the Space Race. She just could not find the pattern in these choices. Nonetheless, she rang up the sale while keenly aware that the customer was browsing her own stash.  


“Every time I come you are toiling away, surely you must be near finished.” It struck Rhosyn that the customer’s words, what definitely not British made, were structured like that of a noble. She Had first pinned the accent as American, but the word choice was all wrong. Old fashioned.  


“I like to get it done during the day.” She said as she worked to peel off the sales sticker.  


“To keep your evenings open?” The customer teased. “You strike me as a night owl.”  
Rhosyn smirked. “How could you tell. The bags?” She pulled at one permanent bruise under her eye as if it could have been evidence of anything but her genes. The customer smiled that toothy smile again.  


“A feeling. I am a bit of a night creature myself.”  
Rhosyn decided this was a good enough opening. “Is that out of habit or for your work?” The customer had asked about her work; it was only fair she know the same. The stranger’s smile shifted slightly, not ashamed but not proud.  


“Both.” Was the response. Rhosyn rang up the price and started to make change.  


“What do you do?” She tried to keep it casual and glued her eyes to the register.  


“I am an… exterminator, is the best way to put it.” The customer looked a little embarrassed, if that haughty face could ever manage such an expression. Rhosyn nodded and thought that the clothes were too nice for someone who worked with poisons.  


“Wow, that must be dangerous, chemicals and such.” She commented. The customer threw her a grin and didn’t move to take the new book.  


“I am a little more old-fashioned in my method. Exterminating vermin isn’t something you do haphazardly. You must be precise in identifying the cause, the nest, and the solution.” It was all said very deliberately and with hint of pleasure that made Rhosyn feel both curious and nauseous. She managed a smile to fill the space as the customer adjusted the same soft gray gloves. They were tailor-made, each finger fit perfectly.  


“I guess I know who to call if I have a pest problem, then.” She joked. The customer finally picked up the hardcover and tucked it away into a breast pocket.  


“I sincerely hope you never have to.”


	2. Black Wine and Dark Waves

The winter weather had descended upon the town with a such violence that even the most seasoned residents began to mutter about it over fish and beer. Rhosyn listened to the low concern emanating from two trolley fishermen. Winter fishing would be difficult when the sea was so rough. Nets were lost, catches were slim. A man could lose a lot to a sudden wave. Much of the low conversation in The Magpie mirrored the fishermen’s. How many years had it been since they had seen such severe weather? What kind of damage would need to be repaired? Would the canal need to close? Rhosyn knocked her heels together under her chair as she looked out the window of the café. She could see the white spray break over the sea wall.  


“Good evening.” Her customer’s low voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up just as a silhouette of grey slid into the chair opposite her. A close-lipped smile greeted her and she suddenly worried that she had something on her face.  


“Hi.” She replied softly as the customer loosened the burgundy scarf and crossed a leg. They were very opposite; she, huddled and curled in on herself. The stranger; relaxed, spread out. Playing at ease. Rhosyn sighed and tried to relax her shoulders before they cramped while her companion idly flipped through the drink menu.  


It had been a strange suggestion. The rain came as usual and the shop was quiet and filled with that damp book smell. She had been mulling over the idea for the better part of an hour when the customer finally came up to the counter to make a purchase. Rhosyn took her time ringing up the book as she searched for the right words.  


She almost lost the courage when she held the book out to a gray-gloved hand.  


“Would you—” She stopped and stared at the glove. The customer waited for a moment and let the book hover between their hands. Rhosyn let out a breath and met her customer’s gaze. “Have you ever been to the café by the water? The Magpie?” The customer watched her for a long moment. Dark eyes under darker lashes slowly examined her face and she again felt her skin burst into flame.  


“I’ve only ever passed it.” Came the reply. Rhosyn released the book and shoved her hand into the bend of her crossed arm. The customer did not look away. “Is it any good?”  


Rhosyn pursed her lips and bit her inner cheek. “It is casual and small. But the food is pretty good for the price. I was thinking of going there later to do some work but,” She turned to the stack of bookmarked tomes and laughed bitterly. “I’m a little burnt out.”  


The customer hummed lowly and stepped over to her stack of research. Those well fitted gloves traced the edges of the books, the slippery plastic marks stuck between the pages, the bit of notebook paper haphazardly used as bookmarks because she was too disorganized to care about real ones. Rhosyn wondering if the hint had been received.  


“That sounds like a good idea. All work and no play makes one fell a bit deprived.” The customer’s expression was thoughtful but distant. Rhosyn fisted her sweater sleeve.  


“Would you like to come?” She said quickly. The customer’s eyes flicked to her and the expression changed, loosened. She felt her jaw go tight as the stranger’s tongue slipped out to wet their bottom lip. There was a long silence punctuated by the pitter-patter of the rain and the banging of a loose shutter. The room suddenly felt very cold and tight.  


“Tonight?” The customer mused softly while straightened a book on the stack. Rhosyn back peddled immediately.  


“It’s fine if you don’t want to.” She said quickly while slipping off the stool to put away the catalog. “Just a thought.” She turned to the shelf behind her and began carefully sorting the selection there. She was waiting for the telltale tinkle of the doorbell to tell her that her embarrassment could be admired in solitude. After a moment, she realized the customer had not yet left. She turned and came back to the counter, a tense smile on her face. “I just thought it might be nice to talk outside of work.”  


The customer’s slack expression changed slowly. A small, white grin appeared and that gloved hand settled over the cover of Courtship of the Late Regency.  


“I would like that very much.” It was such a quiet response surrounded by books and raindrops. Rhosyn relaxed smiled a little bit more and drummed her sweaty fingers under the table.  


“Would around eight be okay?”  


“Have you ordered?” The customer asked while looking over the edge of the menu. Rhosyn shook her head and moved her empty glass of water a quarter turn. She picked up her own menu and realized she didn’t have much of an appetite. The waiter stopped by and the words on the menu became harder to read. Her companion asked for red wine and then looked to her and asked if she’d like to share a bottle. Rhosyn agreed without hearing the type of wine and set the menu aside for later. Her companion arched a brow.  


“Not hungry?”  


Rhosyn smiled and shook her head. “Late lunch. You?” She had no idea how expensive that wine was going to be, split or not. That perfectly cut smile returned and she wondered if she missed a joke.  


“I am a late diner.”  


The pair spent the evening and the bottle of Shiraz in a strange type of dance. Her customer wasn’t very open although Rhosyn could read every emotion that played across their face. Curious. Tense. Laughing. Gone. Here. Here. Here. Glad? The was no guarding of any emotion but that could only take her so far. She quickly learned that it was safest to discuss books.  


She felt as if she would never get out of that godawful store.  


With time, her nervousness began to leave her muscles and she too relaxed into her chair, her glass held loosely over her lap as the conversation paused. Outside, the ocean thundered against stone walls.  


“What are you thinking?” That voice seemed to whisper from just over her shoulder even though it’s owner sat directly before her. Rhosyn didn’t move her eyes from the direction she knew the sea to be.  


“I was admiring the storm.” She admitted quietly. Her companion twisted to follow her gaze.  


“What do you admire about it?” Again the voice was so close and Rhosyn nearly turned her head, expecting to see another person behind her. Goosebumps broke out across the back of her neck and up into her hair.  


“It… it is…” She paused, searching for the words to explain those inherently wordless feelings deep within her. The café had grown dark and quiet in the late evening. The waiters were sitting at the bar, drinking scotch and talking lowly. In their secluded corner, the two stragglers were safe from curious ears and eyes.  


“It just is beautiful. Destructive and raw. Unpredictable and yet it has its own rhythm that you can’t mistake for anything less than what it is. I could watch it forever.” She shook her head, as if waking up from a dream. She turned just as her companion did and tried to smile. “I could do without the sogginess I suppose.” 

Suddenly it became very hard to meet her companion’s solemn gaze.  


“You’re crying.” She touched her cheek and looked down to find a tear. Her eyes were damp around the corners. Rhosyn laughed and caught the moisture on the knuckle of her first finger.  


“That's strange. I’m not sad.” Her companion watched her carefully before reaching across the table to empty the last of Shiraz into their glasses.  


“You don’t have to be sad,” The low light of the café made the Shiraz look black as inky. “Crying is an expression of passionate feelings. Whether that be grief or joy, pain or pleasure.” Her companion raised the wine to examine it. “Those who do not cry are not truly living. They are not experiencing themselves or their environment to the fullest.” The glass chimed as it was set down and Rhosyn felt the mood sour as her companion drifted off again. She took the opportunity to look back at the window and find her reflection staring straight back at her.  


“It is a beautiful thing.”


	3. Spilled Blood and Bullets

By midwinter the storms had become more and more frequent. The channel to the River Esk had to be closed to prevent flooding every time the tide and waves surged inland. Many of the town’s residents had taken off to avoid the freezing damp and poor sights. Those longtime residents marveled at the foul weather and bitter cold. Usually the climate was quite mild along the sea. Rhosyn didn’t mind much when she came into town. Business was up as people scrambled to find last minute gifts for relatives that weren’t known well enough to find something more meaningful than the latest teen romance.

Her customer didn’t like to come in when there were too many people in the shop. Everything had to be quiet between them and the books. And it was always dark when these reserved meetings occurred. Occasionally they would speak until late about books, current events, but lately they spoke about the weather.

“Once,” Rhosyn smiled as she leaned on the counter, speaking quietly even though no one else would hear. “I was visiting my family near the Thousand Islands and we took the ferry from town to the large Island. The sky was dark but you could still see the outline of the storm cloud. It was like a painting.” They were close, not quite whispering but quiet enough to hear the pounding waves. Her customer was attentive to her story, waiting with a placid smile. “It was spectacular. We went below the upper deck and I remember the window and at one moment we were above the water, and the next we were plunged below it. It was so much fun!”

The customer smiled and ran the tip of a grey clad finger along the spine of a damaged book.

“Once,” The stranger’s smooth voice curled in the air.. “I had to travel by boat, across part of the Black Sea.” Rhosyn smiled at the cynical look her custom gave her. “Now, mind you that I am not a seafarer by nature. This was my first time on a boat and all we had was a sail, an oar, and several dogged individuals. Only one had half a clue what needed to be done.” A rueful smile appeared. “I must admit I thought myself to be quiet the achiever. I had all of the pomp and arrogance befitting a young person. Needless to say, I spent the better part of the voyage bent over the side of the boat like a used rag. My pride was nearly as bruised as my ribs.”

They laughed for a moment before the howling winds demanded their notice. They listened to the storm for a long moment before Rhosyn spoke.

“Would you ever try it again? Sailing? Perhaps on calmer waters?”

Her customer sighed and began to play with the edge of the broken book. “I do not think so. I am afraid I am rather averse to open water at this point. I prefer to admire it from shore.”

Rhosyn took her turn to play with the edge of the binding of the same book. “You’re rather trapped then, in England? One big island?”

The customer’s face became carefully neutral and she worried she had said something wrong. But the recovery was quick and soon those dark eyes and white smile returned.

“It is not so bad a place.”

She thought so as well.

* * *

 

Whitby had grown empty. She noticed it first on the bus from her flat in the western part of town. Fewer and fewer people were about and those that were looked thoroughly unhappy, perhaps a product of the miserable weather. The place was on the verge of feeling like a ghost town, excepting for those spurts of busyness of the lunch hour and rush hour rush.

Mr. Tailor had joined her in the shop, waiting for a new delivery of books and an installation of a game table to appeal to tourists. Not that any tourists cared to come in during the awful weather but Rhosyn didn’t bother to argue the point. She spent the better part of the day correctly reassembling the table the delivery man had put together. Mr. Tailor sat behind the counter, going through the catalog and sales docket.

“Rhosyn, where is the—“.

“Top shelf, right side.”

“Rhosyn, did you finish the—“

“File cabinet in the back, in alphabetical order.”

“Rhosyn, did you order the new—“

“It’s coming in next Wednesday.”

Mr. Tailor huffed a sigh and Rhosyn rolled her eyes. She didn’t dislike her employer, but she wasn’t pleased that he was hovering around that day. Always watching, correcting, directing every little placement. It was maddening. She prayed for someone to walk in.

What luck when a troop of rowdy children and an exhausted parent traipsed into the shop. Rhosyn made it her business to fix the burnt out light in the rear room, happy to avoid the screams and wails of children who had been cooped up too long. She hated the sounds they made in the too-tiny shop.

3:47. She glared at the clock and then out to the drizzly weather. Even she was sick of the constant wetness. She had developed one of those deep chest coughs, the type that one can never quite get out. Her throat was raw from the effort and her mood was utterly sour. She didn’t even feel any relief when the mob of tiny humans filed out, she only wanted to get the hell out.

The door chimed again and Mr. Tailor greeted another customer. Her customer by the sound of it. Rhosyn had never gotten a response from her hellos, and her mood soured even more. She wasn’t up to dealing with people, even the enigmatic stranger.

“Excuse me, I am looking for a certain book.” She listened quietly as she got up on the stool to fix the broken light. Mr. Tailor took a moment to fiddle with a paper.

“Ah, yes, let me check and see if it came in.” Rhosyn waited to be yelled to but was surprised when Mr. Tailored slipped into the back office and began rooting around his own personal library. He never gave anyone, anything from his personal library. How did her stranger manage to convince him? She forgot her work as she watched Mr. Tailor select a dull green, leather bound book, tuck it under his arm, and hurry back into the main room.

“I’m sorry sir, but I am afraid it won’t be until next Wednesday. May we ship it to you?” Mr. Tailor said. The customer spared little time in thanking the shop owner before slipping out into the rain. Rhosyn waited for a moment be sure they were alone before calling out,

“Who was it?”

Mr. Tailor flipped through a magazine.

“A customer. Who do you think? The Queen?!” She scowled as he cackled a laugh at his own joke.

* * *

 

She felt salty. That kind of irritated, bitter, dry type of saltiness one gets from being in a bad mood for far too long. It had been too long of a day with the rain only letting up to allow a bitter cold wind to puncture her coat and pants. The young woman hunched her shoulders to try and protect her vulnerable ears as she headed towards the bus stop on Haggersgate. Across the river, the remains of the Whitby Abbey looked hollow in the darkness.

It was nearly midnight on a Friday. Despite the popular hour, it was deathly silent in the main part of town. The bars were dark, the restaurants empty and cold. Rhosyn didn’t pay it much mind, thinking that she had perhaps missed a special religious holiday as the Evangelical Church looked bright between the stone houses. It’d be no surprised if she missed a holiday, Lord knows Mr. Tailor always did. The buses weren’t running properly so she had to hike over to South Side to try and catch the next one. Her toes were cold. She wondered if she should have just started walking home.

Rhosyn paused. That all to familiar feeling of being watched pricked at her senses. She pretended to adjust her shoe as she glanced around. The spires of Whitby Abbey pierced the sky before her, sitting just at the top of the cliff far above. All around her the street was dark and silent. She couldn’t see anyone before her, so as she finished with her boot she turned slightly.

A figure stood directly under a cold streetlight, still and ominous. It didn’t move, it just kind of hung there, surrounded by the artificial light. Rhosyn felt her blood go icy.

“Hello?” No answer. Rhosyn stopped and straightened. What type of creep was this? The shoulders were broad, like the fishermen and dock workers. She couldn’t see the face but the jaw hung at a weird angle. Like a gaping dead fish.

Rhosyn began to walk again, turning her head to check on the figure. It matched her, step for step, until it crossed out of the lamplight.

“Hey!” She called back. It kept coming. “Hey, back off!” The person didn’t respond, it just kept walking forward, slow, and steady. As the individual got closer Rhosyn noticed the smear of deep red across the mouth, neck, and front of the coat.

Blood.

Panic gripped her by the ribs and Rhosyn began to rush for the bus stop just across the next street. Behind her she could hear the lumbering steps as she hurried, sometimes turning to see the person closing in at a terrifyingly steady rate. She looked ahead again, hoping to find an open restaurant or bar to slip to alert someone but nothing was lit, except for the Parish Office. She rushed up the steps and began banging on the door. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the figure coming closer, closer, closer.

The door opened suddenly and the young woman didn’t hesitate, rushing in and throwing the door shut again. She locked it and pressed her entire body against the door, listening between heaving breathes for the _step, slide, step_ of her pursuer. Whomever had opened the door hovered just over her shoulder.

“My, my,” the soothing cantor should have been calming but Rhosyn found the hairs on her neck prickling. “What is the matter my child?” A cold hand settled on her shoulder. The Parish priest stood behind her, dressed in his customary black, holding a Bible under his arm. He looked like he was just about to head to church.

“Someone,” She gasped. “Someone was following me.” She checked the door again before backing up a few steps. “There was blood, blood, all over their face.” She spun and looked around the office. A phone, she needed to call someone.

“I need to call the police.” She made for a desk and the priest followed behind her, concern wrinkling his brow.

“My dear, are you sure? I didn’t see anyone outside.” She was already dialing, receiver to her ear. It was quiet, she had expected to hear that person trying the door. Perhaps the thundering of her heart had drowned it out.

“Come on.” She hit the hook switch. Then she realized the line was dead. The priest still stood placidly between her and the locked door and that chill returned full force. Slowly, Rhosyn set the phone back down.

“Maybe it was just my imagination.” She said tightly, trying to control her fear. The priest hummed but did not move. She feigned a smile, it probably looked like a grimace. “I’m so sorry, I should go.” She made to go around the priest and move for the door.

“Won’t you come to service?” The priest asked. “It is a special night after all.” Rhosyn’s hand froze on the door as she tried to feel out the tone of his voice, the hint of the laugh detected there. Was this funny? Her skin prickled.

“I’m not religious.” She excused while undoing the locks. When she tried the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. She shook it desperately as the priest walked to stand behind her.

“My child,” He cooed and Rhosyn whirled around to look at him. She shuddered when she saw the twisted grin on his face. His eyes were bulging practically out of their sockets, giving him a kind wild appearance. His grin was open and too-white. He looked frenzied, excited as he watched her. “Do come, the church always has room for extra bodies.” His words held a clear double meaning and Rhosyn’s shoulders began to knot with the tension. She had to get out.

The priest lowered his Bible to the table near the door and began to tug on the edge of his sleeve. His movements were leisurely, those of a predator who is assured that they've cornered their prey.

“Do come, Miss, it is such a cold night.” He raised his eyes and she could see the bright crimson color of the iris. “And I know you are lonely.”

The door finally opened and Rhosyn fell back. She cried out as a pair of vice-like hands grasped her by the shoulders, holding her prisoner above the stone steps. That thing had her. A terrifying realization overcame her.

She was going to die.

The priest came to the door, smirking cruelly. Her fear pleased him. Aroused him. He had spent months working his way into the town. His servants were all in place, all deeply under his control. Finally, his hard work would pay off. He could feed in a way he never had before and there would be no questions he couldn’t divert. No more piecemeal bites from his miserable, but necessary, human servants. No more waiting. And what could be better than having someone so vulnerable waltz directly into his liar.

The vampire motioned to his only truly dead servant. The brutish corpse gave the woman a violent shake before dragging her back into the Parish Office. She fought back but there was no one to hear her screaming.

“You really should attend services. It is good for the soul.” He couldn’t help but laugh at his own joke for it was lost on anyone else. She swore and demanded her freedom, made threats and managed to knock over several items and a goblet. Father Piers Pembrooke turned and delivered a hard slap to her face, silencing her protests for a moment.

“Stay silent you worthless trash, or I’ll have him tear your arms out of their sockets.” He hissed vehemently before opening the cellar door leading down to the passage to the church. He always had a flair for the dramatic and he had wanted his first Consummation to be perfect.

Rhosyn could taste the blood over her teeth and up in her nose. She stayed quiet as she was half led, half dragged by the priest’s lackey. He was utterly silent the entire time and it did not take long to discover why. He was dead. Walking, moving, but functionally dead. It was horrifying. The person’s face was gaunt and wrinkled, like a dried corpse. She would have guessed to be a prank if she hadn’t smelled the stench rolling off of the body. It made her gag and her stomach turn. He smelled like roadkill and soil even before they entered the dark underground passageway. Rhosyn’s mind was racing. The red eyes, the smell of death. It wasn’t logical. It couldn’t be real. And yet it walked before her. A fiend. She needed a way out and more and more she feared her only change would be at the end of the tunnel.

“My children.” The priest stood at the podium, under the stained glass windows depicting saints from the Bible. “My devouted few.” The monster grinned at the blank stares from those in the pews. From behind the priest, Rhosyn could pick out several police officers, the mortician, a few doctors, store owners, fishermen and women, and even some children. They all stared ahead, unmoving and unresponsive as the demented man expounded across the church. They didn’t look dead, like the hulking creature holding her still, but they barely looked alive.

“Tonight is a special night. A night of baptism.” He gestured back to Rhosyn and she winced as her arm was twisted. “A baptism to purge the last remaining dredges of humanity from your master. You will serve a creature of such great power that you will cut the icons of your God from your churches and replace them with me!” With a flourish he held his arms out in a perversion of the Christ.

“And all of this, by a bit of blood. Mr. Duncan.” Rhosyn was hauled up to the altar. The tools had all been laid out, a long knife, a cloth, and a cup.

“The blood of the body is the wine of the soul.” The priest hummed gleefully as two more people moved to take Rhosyn by the arms. She struggled again.

“You’re a sick bastard!” She howled in a raged as the dull-eyed people fought to bring her forward. The knife glinted in his hands and swam in her vison. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck are you thinking?!” He continued to grin.

“Have you not figured it out?” He cooed, holding up a hand to stop her approach. He took the nearest person by the chin and leaned over. “What I am?” Rhosyn could only stare as he opened his jaw wide, wider than it should have been, and showed his pointed incisors. The person he held merely stared ahead, completely unreactive aside from a gentle gasp as he fixed his mouth around their throat. The priest convulsed and seemed to lose himself in violating the throat of his victim. It was a long moment before he detached himself, wiped his mouth, and straightened his clothes.

“You are very lucky my dear,” He began again, carefully wiping a trail of blood before it trickled in the crisp white collar. His victim swayed and sat back down in the pew. “For this mere morsels are only temporary relief. What I seek is the power of what I truly am.” He adjusted the knife and looked at her from the corner of his eye. “And for that I need an entire body’s worth of blood. And with this sad little town so firmly in my grasp, no one will find you missing.”

She was pulled forward again, towards her death. Rhosyn seized the arms of her captors and snarled an insult before throwing her legs out and upturning the altar. The priest rushed to escape the crash of the marble, giving Rhosyn the time to through herself back and topple her captors.

Free but not safe. She rolled off them and managed to snag a metal candelabra. She swung wildly, managing to brain the walking corpse and fend off the zombified towns people. The priest howled angrily at her as she backed away from the dais, swinging at anyone who got too close.

“You wretched thing.” The priest growled as he approached. “I was going to make it quick, painless, merciful. But now I will make you suffer just as you deserve!” He did not rush her despite his words and Rhosyn had to be careful as she retreated not to get boxed in.

“You are fucking insane.” She kept him talking, eyeing the large wooden church doors behind her. “What makes you think you can keep this up? People will find out! My government will find out!” She was so close.

The priest snarled. “This is only a fraction of my power, girl! Once I have consumed you, I will not be constrained by these petty human concerns. I have spent months whittling away at the resolve of these simpletons. But soon all I will need is a name, a look, a thought and you pathetic humans will bend to my every desire. I will become a shadow, welcomed in the light and invisible in the dark. I will be powerful, immortal!”

Rhosyn had made it. She straightened just enough to wind her weapon back. She hurdled the oversized candlestick at the mob and turned, throwing the door open and racing down the steps. Straight into another immovable creature.

Rhosyn reeled and swung at the person’s face. She would not be caught again. She would not die here! Her knuckles cracked against a jaw just before she realized who had stood in the way of her escape. Her customer.

A slightly shocked expression stared back at her even as a little bit of blood trickled from between those familiar lips. Rhosyn felt her blood run cold. Was it all a part of this nightmare? Had she been targeted all of this time? Cornered and doomed to some made cult? Finally, wetness pooled in her eyes as her last hope died.

But instead of the firm grip of death, a grey glove lifted to her cheek. Rhosyn flinched away and the gloved paused and lowered. Her customer’s eyes searched her face for a long moment. Those eyes looked so much more animated than those of the people inside the church. She wanted to say something.

“Are you with him too?” Rhosyn could only manage a whisper. Her throat was raw and tight. The question was so quiet that even she could barely hear her own question. Her customer’s lips pursed and a little more room was created between them. She watched as those dark eyes lifted to look behind her once, and then back to her face.

“No.” Came the steady reply. All quiet. Honest. Her hands began to shake and she almost reached out for that gloved hand which held her books so gently.

“Who the hell are you?” The haughty, grating voice of her tormentor pierced her chest. Rhosyn twisted to see the priest standing over them, a sneer curling his maw. His small army of townspeople stood, cloudy eyed and silent, behind him. Beside her, her habitual customer stood, arms relaxed and face marred a trace of repulsion. Her customer spared the priest a pointed look before looking straight at her.

 “I would cover your eyes.” The suggestion was polite, as if said over coffee. Rhosyn watched as a glove vanish into the breast of that familiar coat to grasp something.

“I don’t understand.” She mumbled, watching as the wind caught the stranger’s dark curls. Those eyes watched her over the upturned collar of the coat. Just on the edge of her vison, she could see the distinct shape of a long barreled pistol emerge. The priest began to get nervous.

“Who are you?” He demanded. A little less haughty. A little more afraid.

The customer finally turned away to face the offensive man. The priest’s expression morphed from anger, to shock, to terror. He began to step back, unexpectedly petrified by the person who stood before him.

“No. No.” The customer took the first step up the stairs, slowly, as if heading in for services. The people the priest had been controlling made no move to stop the approach. Despite the priest’s frantic efforts, threats, and begging, only his walking corpse responded.

The sound of a gunshot is enough to stop heart. Rhosyn’s breath caught in her throat the same instant that the corpse collapsed, uttering such an awful moan that it made Rhosyn feel physically sick. It crumbled and gave off such a foul stench as puss and fluid spurted out of the bullet hole. Her customer continued up the stairs, perfectly at ease while refilling the chamber with a single bullet. The priest was quaking.

“I didn’t know!” he cried abruptly. “I didn’t know!” Rhosyn watched with unblinking eyes as the priest turned and escaped back inside of the church. The customer stopped at the top of the steps and carefully lined up the shot. **_Bang_**! The sound of a body hitting the floor echoed back. As if finally released from a spell, the people around her began to collapse, and wail, confused and nonsensical. Disorder ensued as people crawled, tripped and rolled about on the group, clutching at their heads or hugging themselves tight. A few merely sat motionless on the steps. Rhosyn wanted to call out to the stranger, to ask why, and how, and what. But before she could step any closer, firm hands were hauling her and the others away and out of the churchyard. She had enough sense to struggle even as the owners of those hands assured her safety. Still she fought, until she was finally loaded into an ambulance and shut in.

* * *

 

The churchyard was flooded with police lights and personnel in a matter of minutes. Law personnel were busy extracting the surviving victims while specialists poured salt and lime over the contaminated bodies and flesh. A figure in dark grey stood silently by the rear doors of the church, watching the dark town over the edge of the stone walls and gravestones. None of the clean up crew dared approach or speak to the figure. They carried on, ignoring the shadow as best they could.

“Well done.” The praise came from a woman with a severe face and keen eyes. She came to stand by the dark figure. A cigar hovered over her mouth, pinched between her fingers. “You surprisingly left everything intact.” She paused and looked over her shoulder at the hanging cross with a bullet hole through the center. “Well, nearly everything.” She corrected. She eyed the revenant’s body, finally silenced and beginning to go spongy on the floor. His eyes bugged out of their sockets and his jaws was twisted in a frozen, violent scream. She blew some smoke out of her nostrils and returned her gaze to the town.

“We didn’t have any reports of revenant activity here.” Her tone was casual but her companion knew where she was leading. She didn’t like secrets. She didn’t like not knowing. After another long drag she spoke her question.

“What tipped you off? This would have been his first official kill.”

Her companion continued to stare out at the dark town and the black sea beyond. She hadn’t known about these excursions to such an old haunting ground. She did not know of the quiet afternoons spent in a too-small bookstore or warm evenings in a café between watching the sea and drinking dark wine. The figure pushed out a deep breath and the air was devoid the puff of breath that hung around others.

“I was in town.” It was a lame response and the woman barked a sour laugh.

“Really?” She scoffed. She couldn’t be too upset, she supposed. Her servant had notified her quickly enough to mobilize the taskforce and investigate the strangely empty Whitby police station. Everything had gone smoothly. Only two bodies, one long dead and one recently undead.

“You know I don’t confine you because I trust you.” She started, looking to salvage the conversation for her benefit. Her servant could be so tight lipped when it was most inconvenient. Dark eyes slid to her sluggishly, uninterested. “I just… I didn’t ever think you’d return here.” The last phrase was spoken a little more gently. Her servant exhaled loudly and looked away. So much for rescuing the situation.

“We will be heading out soon.” She pronounced as she turned. Her assistant came forward and handed her a preliminary report. Names of the revenant’s victims, statuses, statements. “We will leave Morgan in charge of tidying the rest up.” She motioned for the exit.

“I require something before we leave.” Her servant’s voice was firm but she could taste the apprehension mingling with her cigar smoke. She stopped and waited, keen to hear what could make her enduring servant ask for a favor. Perhaps she would humor it, just once.

“Continue.”

* * *

 

It was hours and she was just getting bits of details. The hospital was teeming with police, emergency workers and the swath of victims of that madman. Rhosyn sat quietly on a gurney in the main triage, watching as nurses and doctors struggling with the sudden influx of affected people. She had been given the all clear, but the attending physician didn’t seem to notice the thousand-yard stare that would come over her each time she caught a hint of that death smell. She didn’t want to shut her eyes.

“What was it? Some sort of cult ritual?” A EMT whispered too loudly just outside of the curtain.

“It sounds like it. They had to call in a specialist team. I heard Brenden say they had been taking some sort of drug.” The technician looked around. “They were messing with a dead body. The leader was shot inside the church.”

“Were they really trying to drink blood? Geez and I thought those movie fans were nuts.”

“Maybe.” Another chimed in. “But it didn’t seem all that romantic. More like a scene from a horror movie.”

“Did you see the bodies?” Another woman whispered. “That one… it looked old… like it had been rotting for months.”

The curtain was suddenly thrust aside and the chief inspector stood before her, red-faced and puffing. Rhosyn flinched at his sudden intrusion.

“Ms. Dhent?” He asked. She nodded. “We need a statement, this way.” He motioned her out of the curtained off cubicle and into the main emergency room. It was still crowded and Rhosyn hated it.

She enquired if she could leave. She wanted to go home. Sleep. Take a bath. Wash that lingering smell of dead body that somehow kept finding its way into her nose. The officer didn’t answer right away as he led them down another, quieter hall.

“Soon, the, uh…” He stumbled as he worked the doorknob. “Someone has asked to speak with you briefly.”

“Who…” Rhosyn trailed off as the inspector finally opened a door, revealing an office with a someone standing in the center, their back to the door. The inspector motioned for Rhosyn enter before shutting the door behind her, leaving her alone and unprepared in the silent office.

The person turned around once the door closed. It appeared to be a woman in her mid-fifties with deep skin and sharp eyes. Her hair had gone gray behind her ears. She was striking and beautiful as she looked Rhosyn over. Despite being taller than this woman, Rhosyn felt very small.

“Ah, Ms. Dhent.” The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. She had a firm grip that made Rhosyn’s already bruised fingers ache. “Thank you for taking the time.”

“I didn’t really get a choice.” Rhosyn replied sourly before another figure caught her eye. In the corner of the office, facing the bookcase, her customer stood with gloved hands folded neatly at the base of the spine, eyes turned up to read the titles. She paused before the woman in front of her caught her attention again.

“My name is Honoria Fairburn. I am the Specialist Director in charge of the incident at Whitby.” She pulled out a card and Rhosyn awkwardly took with her bandaged fingers. “I understand you were witness to the events this evening?”

Rhosyn’s anger boiled at the casual tone. “Yes.” Her voice was low and raw with the effort to keep from screaming. An incident? She had nearly been murdered by that monster! Honoria looked as cool and collected as ever as she pulled out a cigar and twisted it between her fingers. Despite being nearly a head shorter than Rhosyn, she still managed to look down her nose at the younger woman.

“Do you know what it was you saw? How would you describe it?” The rage within Rhosyn’s chest burned like fire. How dare she talk to her as if she had just seen a play instead of the making of her own death.

“What the hell?” Rhosyn hissed. Honoria’s eyes grew bright. “Who the hell are you to ask me that? That— _thing_ tried to kill me as some fucking sacrifice and you are asking me to describe it?” Her voice broke as tears burned her eyes. “Are you twisted?

The woman before her gave little reaction, holding her gaze for a long moment before leaning back against the desk.

“Perhaps,” She admitted while tapping some ash off the cigar. “But I do not ask to confuse you or suggest you don’t know what you saw. I want you to _describe_ it. The details, the sounds, the façades.” She lifted the cigar and took a drag. “The smells.

“I want to know what you experienced.” She finished intently.

How could she describe it? It wasn’t anything she had seen. It was…

“Unnatural.” Rhosyn whispered. The woman before her nodded for her to continue. Rhosyn licked her lips and glanced at the stranger, once not so strange, now too unfamiliar to feel comfortable again. “The priest. He talked about blood and bit into someone neck in front of me.” She looked back to Honoria. “At first I thought he was just… insane but that man…” She felt nauseated as the memory of the smell assaulted her. “He made them all into puppets and spoke of power.”

“What would call the likes of him?” Honoria pressed. Rhosyn’s brow furrowed.

“A vampire.” Honoria’s face sparked to life and she nearly smiled.

“Precisely.” The woman turned and circled the desk, arranging herself leisurely in the chair. Rhosyn could only gape after her.

“Vampires?” Rhosyn repeated. “Are you serious?” Honoria hummed and nodded her head once.

“I’m sure you’ve heard those stories. Blood sucking, hypnotizing, sinful creatures that terrorized Victorian England.” She crossed her legs and tapped the arm of the chair thoughtfully. Rhosyn’s customer finally moved and held out a cigar to the woman. “Quite the fantasy for a town like Whitby. I hear it is quite a draw for the tourist market.” Honoria pulled out a device to clip the end of her cigar. Rhosyn couldn’t take her eyes off the older woman as she trimmed the end with neat, sharp, cuts.

“Except when it’s not all fantasy.” She finished lowly and looked at Rhosyn through clear, round glasses.

“So, Dracula, Bram Stoker? Are you telling me that it all happened?” Rhosyn couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Vampires and the supernatural were products of gothic romanticism and ignorance. It wasn’t something that seriously functioned in real life.

“Embellishment.” Honoria scoffed, her expression looked disdainful.

“A lie.”

 The two women looked towards the corner where the vampire had taken, looking stiff and sour. The director sighed slightly and returned her steely gaze to Rhosyn. “Stoker’s book _is_ a work of fiction, but that does not mean it does not have some roots in fact.” She looked down to the desk and straightened the paperweight ever so slightly. “There have been spurts of violence in the historical record. Murders never caught, bodies gone missing or horribly mutilated. It sets the imagination a fire.” She eyed Rhosyn. “Jack the Ripper stole London’s attention and struck fear in the hearts of many. However, he also provided excellent cover for a less human scourge.” She paused and looked over at the figure by the window. The stranger threw a pointed, toothy jeer right back at her, eyes were dark and cold.

“Me?” The stranger chuckled bitterly and it made the little hairs on the back of Rhosyn neck stand. Honora made no comment as she held out the trimmed cigar. The stranger approached and lit her cigar with a silver lighter produced from within that long grey coat. Perhaps it came from where that gun was hidden. Honoria took a slow drag and tapped the ashes off onto the ashtray. When she spoke, her tone was sharp and business-like.

“Ms. Dhent, I am here to give you some information and a choice.” As she looked up the stranger moved to stand at her back like some lurking phantom. Rhosyn swallowed and met the directors cool gaze.

“We have been dealing with these creatures for well over a century. What occurred today in Whitby was nothing but an infestation to be wiped out. Troublesome, but minor. We professionals have maintained the safety and security of this country and the people in it for all of this time. We are unknown; a shadow. We feed the public the information they crave, just enough to be satisfied, without endangering them. We are specialists and we require a certain amount of skill to manage this task.” She took another drag and the smoke slithered out from her nose. It burned Rhosyn’s nose but washed the smell of corpse flesh out.

“You can try to talk about what happened. In fact, say whatever you like. No one but the most devoted of conspiracy theorists will buy it. We have structured everything to protect our organization and this country. You will find that our secrets are more closely guarded that even the Queen herself.” Rhosyn felt her palms grow sweaty. She desperately wanted to get out of that room.

Honoria continued, her tone harsh and smug. “The police here will say nothing. They know nothing. Your statement has already been filed and signed, making all as we wish it. Everything is in place. Tomorrow you can go back to your life, go back to your studies, go back to your country, go back to your ignorance. This will be the last time we see each other.

“But,” Honora crushed the cigar between her fingers and the ashtray. She looked agitated, like someone about to embark on a thrill. “I am giving you a choice, Rhosyn Dhent. My operative,” She nodded to where the stranger stood. “Has informed me of your conduct tonight.”  She dusted off her fingers and adjusted her glasses, a wicked smirk splitting her face.

“Few so untrained survive so long at the hands of such a well-connected fiend.” She hummed approvingly. “You played your cards just right. I believe you have the makings of an operative of my organization. I would be willing to bring you in, teach you, train you, and in return you join us in our work in exterminating the vile wretches that walk this earth.” Somehow Rhosyn felt that this was a prearranged speech designed to inspire her into service. Behind Honoria, the stranger—Dracula? —she didn’t even know what to think of that, remained stoic. Those familiar dark eyes watched her with careful detachment. Honoria had said something else in the moment Rhosyn spent considering the expression in those eyes.

“You have a choice.” The Director spoke with finality. “Should you accept you will enter in a world that is very different from your own. If you don’t things won’t be the same. You will still have questions, still fear the shadows.” Honoria pushed herself out of the chair and walked around the desk. “I will wait one week for your answer.” Rhosyn took the crisp gray card offered to her. _Director Honoria W. Fairburn_. “After that you will find us quite impossible to reach. Good evening, Ms. Dhent.”

Suddenly, Rhosyn was alone in the office with a card burning her hand and questions rattling around in her head.

* * *

 

She waited until 5:36 the following Thursday to make her decision. The phone rang for an eternity before a woman picked it up and transferred her to Director Fairburn.

“Ms. Dhent.” The Director greeted, cool and collected as when they first spoke.

“I’ll do it.” Rhosyn rushed the words into the receiver. She could hear the Director pull in a long, slow breath.

“I will expect you Monday morning, 8 o’clock, at my office.” It was abrupt, not even preceded by a question of her conviction. Rhosyn was barely able to utter her acknowledgement before the Director began to rattle off the address. Rhosyn had to scribble it on the inside cover of some unfortunate book left on the counter.

“Monday, be on time.” Honoria reiterated. Rhosyn could tell she was about to be hung up on.

“Wait,” Rhosyn listened for the click. When she was sure Honoria was still there she continued. “Wait. I will do it. But I need to know… what this makes me.”

The idea had dogged her the entire week. At first, she had shoved every thought of doing this… thing. Would she carry a gun and go hunting in the depths of the night? Would she battle hordes of monsters and victims like Bram Stoker’s characters? What could she expect of herself? She had never considered such a turn in her career. Her battles had been fought with words and facts and fierce campaigns. She would call herself fierce, but the idea of facing something so obviously monstrous was terrifying.

And yet, she wanted to know. The memories hounded her at every turn. She was becoming paranoid and Rhosyn didn’t want to be afraid. What Honoria offered was not a life of violent thrill; it was power over her fear.

Director Fairburn sighed loudly as she thought about her response. Rhosyn’s jumping knee struck the underside of the counter as she waited.

“You won’t be the same.” The Director began, quietly and slowly. “You won’t have the same luxury of ignorance that you had before. You will see things that will make you scream in the middle of the night, that will haunt you behind your eyelids.

“Your fear will be founded in reality. You will know your demons better than your loved ones. But you won’t be alone. Not in the way you are now and not the way you were on that night. Your enemy will be those who seek to corrupt the living. Your enemies will fear your coming like the Devil fears God. You will have the opportunity to stamp them out. Exterminate them and their ilk from the world and those ignorant masses on whom they prey.” The Director paused in her impassioned speech. “There is little I can promise you except for this: you will not be alone in this crusade. You will know your allies and they will know you.”

When the phone went silent Rhosyn couldn’t bring herself to hang up the receiver. After a long moment, she looked down to the address scribbled, almost illegibly, in the inside of the book. Rhosyn grasped the cover between her fingers and turned it over to read the title.

 _Dracula_.

* * *

 

Mr. Tailor generally thought himself a fair tempered man. He knew he was demanding at times, but he never asked for more than could be expected. He was not cruel. He was a fair employer who expected quality and a degree of professionalism from his employees, which made Ms. Dhent’s sudden quitting all the more unpleasant to the old man. He sat in his small shop, fuming as he flipped through the catalog. The flippant woman had just called and said she couldn’t work there anymore. Apparently, she had secured a position in London and not even bothered giving proper noticed. Somewhere, deep down, Mr. Tailor understood that for such a young person it was the chance of a lifetime. But it was still unacceptable and she would be hard pressed to get character reference from him.

The bell chimed delightfully as a customer came in. Mr. Tailor looked up and brightened when he saw who it was.

“Ah, just on time!” Mr. Tailor extolled loudly as the stranger drifted in. The shop keeper fumbling around the counter. “It finally came in. Wouldn’t believe the gall of the shipping company. The idiots sent it to Brighton, Brighton of all places!” He pulled out a fine, leather bound book and set it neatly on the counter. His cheeks swelled with pride. No one valued such books anymore. “It is in excellent condition, a true rarity of restoration.” The customer approached the counter leisure and laid a hand on the book. Mr. Tailor waited for any comment of appreciation or admiration of the fine quality of the book but, as usual, this customer was rather quiet.

In fact this particular client made Mr. Tailor rather nervous. All silence and dark. The old man had seen a lot of strange folks come through town, often on the way to parade about the Abbey Ruins or partake in some godawful festival. Vampire paraphernalia were a penny a piece in this town and Mr. Tailor had been adamant about keeping his store stock pure. That said, he didn’t mind the special order for this customer.

“I can see you are a gentleman with a good appreciation of literature.” Mr. Tailor smiled while he slid the book towards the register. “Let me make sure all is in order.” He began to flip through the pages, quick and careful, making sure everything was perfect for such a purchase. He was just about to shut the thing when he saw, on the inside of the first blank page, the most horrid thing.

“That thoughtless girl.” He cursed. The useless thing had written inside of a customer’s specially ordered book! Mr. Tailor was outraged. She would pay for this, he would strip it from her last wages and charge her whatever fee it took to overnight another copy. But this one had been _restored_ , on particular request for his customer. The old man was fuming, so red in the face that he looked to by having a fit.

A slow, delighted laugh trickled from the customer. Mr. Tailor looked up, halfway through gabbling an apology.

“I apologize sir. Truly this is inexcusable.” The customer did not seem to care as he slid the book out from under Mr. Tailor’s hands and turned it. A strange, beautiful smile spanned the customer’s sallow face.

“It is perfect.” The strange client murmured while tracing the scrawl over with a finger. Mr. Tailor balked and tried to reason with the customer that such a marred book could not be acceptable. He was entirely thwarted in his effort, and the customer walked out having paid in full, with the book held gingerly to the gray afternoon light.

_Foreign and Commonwealth Office, King Charles St, Westminster, London SW1A 2AH_

_ MI13 _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continuation will follow in the series "Bone, Blood and Bodies".


End file.
